大象传媒

This story was written by my stepfather who died 12th Nov 1998. He always wanted this published and so this seems an approriate way to serve his wishes.

Story by Eric E. Bartlett Ex.P.O.W., 12696

War Clouds on the Horizon.

The long warm summer of 1939 was like a happy dream. The sun-drenched beaches drew their usual sun-worshippers enjoying the last few weeks of peace.

It was on one of these delicious summer days with the soft breeze wafting in from the Atlantic when I met "The Forest Queen", a well-known clairvoyant. "War is predicted - but you would care to know if you will be called up?" she asked. I nodded.

"You will join the Army, but you will not go abroad." Before I left she gave me a silver crucifix. "Wear this," she urged, "and it will bring you good fortune."

I wore the crucifix until I arrived in France where I was so unfortunate as to lose it at a gun-site. This loss was significant for I was later invited to visit Hitler's Third Reich.

On August 27th I reported to my local Drill Hall and met the Sergeant-Major. In between uniform and kit issues, with topical announcements familiar to most young volunteers at that time such as: "You may break your poor mother's heart lad, but you won't break mine," and "The first three years are the worst," I was initiated into the Army with its discipline second to none in the whole world.

"Well, it's just a precautionary measure: it's been decided we've got to show the Fuhrer who is boss."

The headlines of the Sunday newspapers that memorable day after the outbreak of war still did not daunt me. Our Officers drawn from the ranks of the tweedy county folk, echoed our sentiments: "No, it can't be another war like 1914-1918 - the Germans learnt their bitter lesson then." How wrong we were!

Life in the Army was busy: we were on our toes most of every working day; training periods and guard duties at Samuel White's Shipyards at Cowes kept us busy. There was a spirit of camaraderie which was unbelievable, and the hospitality of the civilians towards men in uniform at that time served as a tremendous boost to morale.

I had with me my pal of Civvy Street, Ernie Brown or as he is now affectionately named: "Premium Bond Ernie"

Ernie was a laboratory chemist for I.C.I., happy-go-lucky and dubbed by some folk as a stick-in-the-mud. He had no great ambitions in life: it was not his most urgent desire to become a famous chemist, nor an inventor, but his philosophy of life was sound. So long as he had enough food to eat, and a good pipe, that was his idea of contentment. He had one big hate: dictators, big or small. I remember just before we went to France he was restless for action and he would often confide: "Let's get over there - we'll show 'em who's who!

Embarkation Day

Confusion was everywhere on the dockside at Southampton that grey damp morning in March, as we embarked on a troopship for France. I remember saying farewell with mixed feelings to dear old England as we set sail prior to making course for the French coast.

It was a beautiful moonlit night as we lay on the decks in our uniforms, clustered together like innumerable sardines in a can.

Early next morning we disembarked at Leo Harvey and awaited marching orders for billets. Enthusiasm was everywhere and the hustle and bustle of troops on the move provided a never-ending source of curiosity to the French population. I was fortunate in having "Premium Bond Ernie" as a pal, since his fluent knowledge of the French language invited conversations with civilians in the cafes.

The first five weeks on French soil passed peacefully: we were occupied mainly on gun-sites with very little action. A few bombing raids by the Germans did some damage to civilian property. The French folk became alarmed and all but the old and infirm took to their heels, carrying with them their few belongings. House after house lay derelict and open doors invited looting by the B.E.F. The food shops offered their wares, so we walked in and helped ourselves. Army rations were meager, consisting mainly of bully beef and biscuits. Were we to blame? I think not. It is astounding to what lengths a man will go when driven by the pangs of hunger.

An Invitation to Visit the Fatherland

I was out on a trench-digging fatigue attached to The East Surrey Regiment when it happened. Orders were received to report back to rejoin our unit. A truck arrived, took away our kit-bags and that was the last we ever saw of it or the kit-bags.

Led by Sergeant Bill Harcourt we arrived at our billets and were informed by the transport section that our unit, in common with other units of the B.E.F., were withdrawing to Dunkirk.

It was the beginning of the end. There was no transport available so we would have to "foot it."

A plan of action had to be made. Sergeant Bill gazed at his map, knitted his brow, stood back and then spoke: "Blimey, we've had it - twenty miles to Dunkirk, so lads, we'll be on the road again, but not tonight, though: we'll kip in a Froggie's (Frenchman's) house somewhere and start off first thing tomorrow.

An obliging farmer settled us in his barn for the night. Sleep came with some difficulty: if you've ever tried to sleep with rats scurrying over your straw blankets you'll understand.

Next morning our farmer friend presented us with a gratifying breakfast of bacon and eggs, washed down with piping hot coffee. We must have thanked him a thousand times before we set off on the morning of May 28th. I reckoned we covered about five miles when the Sergeant called a halt.

As we wiped our foreheads, sitting by the roadside, a platoon of French soldiers came along and told us a discouraging tale: "We are surrounded," their officer gesticulated. "It is no use for you to continue your marching: it will not be long now before we meet the Germans!"

We did not wish to believe them and considered it was just pure speculation on their part. We continued our march. Now the noon day sun was quite hot for May and marching became rather uncomfortable. However, we soon had other troubles beyond the temperature. Suddenly, without warning, round a bend in the road came a convoy of lorries heading in our direction. British or --?

With our hearts in our mouths we gaped. The first truck halted and two soldiers in field-grey uniforms alighted, armed with Tommy-guns. In a desperate bid for freedom, we dashed into nearby thicket, but this was not to be our lucky day.
"Halten, Tommy," came a voice at our heels, "Kommen sie, kommen sie, for you the war is over."

A dozen machine-guns were trained at us in stony silence. We looked at one another, speechless for a moment: then Ernie turned to me and just stammered "My God!"

"Throw down your rifles, release your ammunition belts," came an order. A stray thought flashed across my mind: would they shoot us and ask questions afterwards?

We were the centre of attraction now as officers in staff cars greeted us with: "Well, Tommies, your war is over, you will be going to Germany and we are heading for Paris, and, within a fortnight we shall be in England: Adolf Hitler intends to speak from the Guildhall in London."

"Confident sort of B-----!" retorted Ernie, at my side, and despite our predicament I felt like smiling at this remark.

The next fourteen days was enough to get even the toughest men down. The physical and mental torture of the journey to Germany was indescribable. We found ourselves herded together, fifty to sixty men in cattle trucks with poor ventilation. Bread and coffee was provided at irregular intervals. We slept all the while in our clothes, in various positions on the floor, and the nauseating odour of sweat was almost unbearable.

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